


H(a)unter.

by Itty_Bitty_Albatross



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:46:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itty_Bitty_Albatross/pseuds/Itty_Bitty_Albatross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Objects haunted--not by spirits, but by the living--and left to the hunters, to remind them, digging in like corkscrews.<br/>Series of chapters.<br/>Destiel, can be read as romantic or platonic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	H(a)unter.

If there's one (unfortunate) thing about objects in the Supernatural world, it's that they have a tendancy to absorb energies, patterns, bits of soul, and that's all the daisies for spirits.  
But it happens to human's things, too--nothing noticeable or malevolent.  
Have you ever wandered around an antique store or someone's attic and saw the stories?  
There may not be spirits or ghosts inhabiting that dish, those dolls, the sets of silver, but they are certainly haunted.  
In one legend, people lose a bit of soul with every exhale.  
That set of silver is made up of cells, atoms, like everything else, and maybe it gathers up your soul when you speak or gasp into the air.  
So it was that Dean's jeans held a bit of his soul. They held a bit of his, a touch of Sam's, a few words-worth of his father and Adam.  
When Castiel needed clothes, before he left, he--what's the word?--nicked them.  
Dean knew.  
Dean let him.  
So on bad days, when he's feeling damaged and wrecked, Cas runs his hands over the seams of the jeans, feeling the sturdy texture rubbed thin and soft over worn spots. He strokes a finger over the fraying edge of the cuffs. He smooths his palms--rough from years of fighting and grabbing--along the sun-bleached areas: on top of the thighs, the sides.  
There's a hole near the left calf, one where the denim in the ring around the spot is blackened. At some point someone dropped some ash, a cigarette butt, or something like it on his pants and burnt a hole through it. Dean didn't smoke.  
There's a worn streak, a weakening in the fabric, in the back pocket on the left hand side. It's shape and size suggest a folding knife was tucked in there. After years of being shifted and sat on it's worn out of denim.  
There's a stain on the front, near the zipper. If Castiel had to guess, he'd say ketchup, or barbeque sauce. Dean didn't eat regularly enough, in Cas's opinion, but it was good to have definitive proof that he did actually eat something other that pie, beer, and coffee. Or maybe the spot was blood. In retrospect, that was more likely.  
Cas had been careful, so far, not to rip or stain the jeans further. They were on loan, in his eyes, because he was going to give them back to Dean the next time they met. Whenever that would be.  
Dean's jeans--that are Castiel's for the time being--have that sense of soul, the haunted feeling.  
Good haunted.  
Bittersweet haunted.  
But haunted.  
It was a familiar feeling.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see something read into, drop me a comment and I'll give it a shot.  
> Tobi.


End file.
